It is often said that family is a matter of course. A question of blood, of natural ties, of destiny. For a long time, I believed that to be true. Until the day my own story forced me to redefine this word, with an almost brutal clarity.
My name is Camille, I’m 25 years old, and my mother has been in a wheelchair for as long as I can remember. Long before I was born, an accident upset hers. She was told that she would never walk again, that she would never be able to have children. She cried only once. Then she decided to live, fully, differently.
The morning it all began
« I can’t keep her. I’m sorry. »
The emergency services arrived. He was told that the competent services would take over. She looked at the baby I was… and simply replied,
« I’m going to be his mother. »
Everyone tried to dissuade her. Single. In a wheelchair. « It will be too hard. » She listened, nodded… then does the exact opposite. Months later, the adoption was official. She called me Camille. For me, she was never « my adoptive mother ». She was just a mother.
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